live, he says, i am coming
by ohtasha
Summary: "I want everyone- all of us, all the cousins- to do something huge before we leave school. Something so we won't always be called George Weasley's son or Fleur Delacour's daughter. Something our parents never did," he continues and now he has their undivided attention.


The attic of the Burrow is a museum dedicated to old armchairs missing a spring, little sidetables that no one likes enough to mend and books so old their spines crack when opened and release little balloons of dust into the air. Teddy, shaking Uncle George's red hair and nose away, leads the procession through the labyrinth, a bottle of cordial raised above the chaos to protect it from anything that might suddenly move.

It's mid-August, the hottest day of the year so far, and the attic is stifling. Shorts and tank tops are too hot and the red trails from running ice lollies are sticky to the touch. Dominique, bringing up the rear as the youngest must, grumbles in French but finally, mercifully, Teddy stops and bodies heated from movement drop onto cool leather and cardboard boxes to relax.

"You really couldn't have told us what this is about downstairs, Ted," Freddie mutters through a mouthful of biscuit and Teddy, who has first dibs on the bittersweet cordial, glares at him.

"This is important," he says and he puckers his lips as the lemony tartness hits the back of his mouth. "I don't want the adults hearing and besides, the others are too young. They wouldn't understand."

He pauses, passes the bottle round and Dom takes the chance to complain again. "Il fait chaud. Il fait trop chaud," she groans, stretching out the long legs no nine year old should have. She's all ripped denim and the crop tops only a little girl can get away with; Vic, eyeing the biscuits Fred is shovelling in by the handful, straightens her chemise and glares.

"I want to start something," Ted says quickly, before the French becomes too twisted and sonorous for him to follow, "something new."

His words are chosen carefully- at the back of his mind he's hoping that Fred, cynical, intelligent Fred, doesn't ask how many times he's practised that in front of the mirror (too many times to admit to)- and Weasley eyes are fixed on him.

"I don't want to be Remus Lupin's son. Well, I do, obviously," he fixes as they look at him as if he's lost his marbles (again, this sounded better in his head), "but I don't want to be known as that for the rest of my life. I don't want to be a Marauders' child forever."

Vic begins to understand, bumps her shoulder against his knee. Freddie's still more interested in the biscuits; Dom's picking at the loose threads in her shorts.

"I want everyone- all of us, all the cousins- to do something huge before we leave school. Something so we won't always be called George Weasley's son or Fleur Delacour's daughter. Something our parents never did," he continues and now he has their undivided attention. "I want to leave Hogwarts when I'm seventeen and for people to say that Remus was _my dad_. Not the other way round."

He takes a deep breath and smiles. This is their time.

Silence as everyone digests what he's said. Then -

"So how many times did you practise that in front of the mirror, Ted?"

"Shut up, git."

* * *

It turns out, though, that there isn't much that Remus John Lupin didn't do. Periodic transformations into a werewolf are a little more impressive than constant nose-shape changes. Even the pig's snout wears thin after a while, though Flitwick still does a double take. There's no point in mapping the school again and although Teddy's practically positive that his dad didn't get to fourth base as quickly as he has, he's not sure that he wants to be known by his generation for his 'adventures' with Alice Ormond. He also doubts that his dad started noticing a girl he grew up with in quite the same way that he's started noticing Vic but again, that's touching a little close to home.

He's feisty, like his mum, and doesn't leave a friend in Friday detention by himself. He turns the Prefect badge over in his fingers in the summer before Fifth Year with a slight sense of trepidation. (Dad was a Prefect, he thinks, but thanks Percy anyway.)

Two years later, though, and he's playing four-on-four Quidditch in the Burrow's garden and trying not to think about Vic's new boyfriend when the owls arrive. It's not his fault, really, that he drops the Quaffle. His palms are sticky and sweat's pooling at the nape of his neck. James shouts at him but- as usual- he ignores him and all but leaps off the broom and sprints inside. The letter's heavier than usual (Seventh Year ones usually are, Harry says) and he wonders briefly what his dad would say if he were here.

The badge falls out of the parchment envelope and Teddy's mouth falls open. "But I've had forty-two detentions and I only got an E in Transfiguration last year and I nicked the Cloak from James for a whole term to freak Melissa Rowland and..." He's rushing through the words (didn't practise those ones in front of the mirror) and then he trails off because he's done it. Something his parents never did and now a whole generation will see 'Ted Remus Lupin' in gold lettering on the board in the Records Hall.

"Your dad wasn't Head Boy, you know," Harry says quietly and Teddy can't explain why he grins in Vic's direction before he answers.

"I know."

* * *

Victoire has issues with her name. French for 'victory', the unfortunate result of wanting to see what was going on in the big bad world a few weeks before she was supposed to find out. It's poetic, everyone coos, absolutely beautiful. A true tribute to those who fell, someone once said and they only managed to walk away because Ted held her arm back and wrapped his hand around her closed fist.

(Thumb outside, she thought, don't want it broken. She wasn't always grateful for Uncle Ron's 'lessons' but she was that day.)

**vic·to·ry**  
_(n) An act of defeating an enemy or opponent in a battle, game, or other competition._

But Vic (if Ted's not around and someone calls her 'Tory', the School Nurse and a quick healing spell beckon) simply isn't a winner. The Puffs haven't won the House or Quidditch Cup for a while now, and while second place is perfectly respectable, it isn't _first_. Dom (not so helpfully) reminds her that it's not like Maman won the Triwizard Tournament or anything, although she does admit that Dad won everything going at school and quickly backs off before Vic can decide which body part to aim for.

Vic hasn't beaten anyone at anything but Firewhiskey makes her wonder if, maybe, she can win at something. She doesn't notice her acrophobia because there's a light breeze that lifts her hair so it tickles her bare shoulders. She's buzzing, drunk on life and the possibility of victory and she's happy, for the first time she can remember in a long while. Half of her thinks she should do this more often, the other half is coaxing and whispering and needling her to go further, do something huge.

She steps, a foot no longer grounded and there's a split second of fearful adrenaline before there are strong arms around her waist.

She screams, he shuts her up, pulls her back, she breathes and sobs because she's lost again.

Whispers, not as caressing as the evening wind's, float behind her, lead her on for the rest of the year and she smiles wryly whenever she sees Ted in the hallway. She has, at least, won at something. She's achieved a notoriety her parents never did but there's no accompanying sense of euphoria.

Victory is empty.

* * *

What to do when your father was one of the greatest pranksters Hogwarts has ever known and your namesake was another? When your namesake, your father, your mother played House Quidditch and won the Quidditch Cup. What to do when the first thing another student asks you, before the train has left King's Cross, if you've got anything planned for the Welcome Feast?

It's a riddle that takes Fred a while to solve. Actually, it takes him 6 years to solve. Six years of (though Lou wouldn't believe it) deep thinking, extensive planning and hard work. Six years of analysing situations, every possible outcome, reactions and consequences. Six years of working out how the hell he's going to do this and who the hell he's going to do it with.

Because the idea came to him quickly enough. When your parents have done everything (if it's hard for him, he pities the Potter-Weasley-Grangers. Merlin knows they'll have to do something Azkaban-worthy to fulfill their end of the bargain), you've got to work on what they did. They laid the foundations, he's got to build the house.

Or the Quidditch pitch, however you choose to look at it.

Quidditch Cup final, May, Seventh Year and Lysander is running through the teams. Freddie, high up in the stands, has a hand in his pocket, fingering the betting slip. Time flows like treacle as the teams fly out, the rules are read out, the whistle is blown and the game starts. The Hufflepuff Chaser tears up the length of the pitch, takes aim, shoots, scores. The Keeper goes entirely the wrong way but it's the first shot of the match, nerves are bound to play a part.

The ink starts smearing on the betting slip and Fred's thumb darkens.

It's a Hufflepuff runaway; everyone wants to know what the Ravenclaw Chasers are doing (or aren't, to be technical) and their Captain calls a time-out. Play resumes, the Keeper misses again and the betting slip is almost unreadable.

It's only the slip that evades the Hufflepuffs but it fits neatly into Ravenclaw hands and Freddie's calm exterior masks a satisfaction he can't explain. He doesn't meet Jack's eye or Nora's or Cy's and instead goes up to collect his winnings.

Augustus Nott isn't pleased, wants to know if he had anything to do with that mess. Fred smiles, palm out.

"Us Weasleys are good with predicting Quidditch scores," he says blithely and knows that Uncle Fred, his namesake, would probably be proud. Maybe. Hopefully. That was the point of the exercise, after all.

It takes a while for rumours to spread but Fred, solely focused on his NEWTs as he has been for six years, really, knows nothing. George isn't sure what to feel but he knows his son has pulled off something bigger than anything he ever did.

* * *

It doesn't take long for Dom to do her bit. Intentional or not, she's forever secure in the knowledge that she did it the quickest.

Maybe it's her Veela blood, maybe it's being part of a family that breeds like rabbits and lives in each other's pockets, but she's got no problem with having the whole school look at her. She's beginning to be aware of the fact that she _is_ something to look at; more angular than Vic and less polished, but her genetic cocktail has done her more than a few favours.

There are five tables expecting this latest Weasley to follow the trend, or at least not to rock the boat too much. There are five tables who go so silent you could hear a pin drop when the hat shouts, "Slytherin!". There's one table with people who start clapping first and clap the loudest when she wanders over to the dumbstruck table on her far right. There's one table with people who have even more reason to fear playing Slytherin at Quidditch. Among those people, there are a few who can't believe she's done something so big so quickly.

* * *

"Mors aurem vellens, "vivite," ait, "venio."  
(Death twitches my ear. "Live", he says, "I am coming".)  
- Virgil


End file.
